


Oh, you're so naive, yet so

by MeanderingMotivation



Series: The Witcher A/B/O [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Read notes for warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22491229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanderingMotivation/pseuds/MeanderingMotivation
Summary: Jaskier learns that confidence doesn’t always correlate to safety as an unmated omega.Geralt teeters on the edge of being overprotective, and being rational.ORAfter disobeying Geralt’s instructions to say out of a particular town, Jaskier finds himself in a bit of trouble.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher A/B/O [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597840
Comments: 61
Kudos: 1689
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Oh, you're so naive, yet so

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, this fic is like, as Geralt would say, 'a pie with no filling'. A little longer than the last two I've written, but it's mostly build up for what is to come, because apparently I'm not very good at getting to the really good stuff without doing the set-up thing ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Secondly, I'm still a novice in The Witcher fandom, and I don't know heaps about the lore. If anything seems amiss, it's because what I'm writing is based on the TV show. 
> 
> Finally, a brief warning before anyone starts to read: There is discussions of mistreatment of human beings (particularly omegas) and a brief moment of non-consensual touching (not explicit, and not between Geralt and Jaskier) If anyone finds this triggering, please give this a miss and find another lovely work to read :)

* * *

“I said **_no_**.”

“And you said it _very_ powerfully, Geralt. Great enunciation. You should use that conviction the next time some horrid monster tries to eat off our faces, or something similarly disgusting. It might save a lot of slicing off limbs, and foul bodily fluids splattering-“

“ **Jaskier.”**

Unwittingly, Jaskier ducks his head. Geralt’s entire being _oozes_ domination, from his authoritative stance, to his unwavering voice. He’s even started to push out some stifling pheromones, which are nearly enough to send Jaskier scurrying back to their campfire with his metaphorical tail between his legs.

The cause of this argument, you may ask? Well-

“You’re being ridiculous, Geralt! I’ve handled myself perfectly well in many towns like this one in the past. I may not boast the impressive ability to make a man defecate in his trousers from a glare alone, but I’m not some swooning woman who needs protecting. Furthermore, remaining behind would result in a great loss of coin for me. This town is _overflowing_ with rich gits with deep pockets. Why, the last time I was here-“

_“You’ve been here before!?”_

Jaskier grimaces at the growl, inwardly reprimanding himself for his big mouth. When Geralt had heard rumour of a bloodthirsty beast terrorising this particular town, he’d been keen to make a _killing_ , pun intended. Regular run-of-the-mill deranged human murderer, or supernatural pest, Geralt would be rewarded handsomely for ridding the affluent town of their problem.

It sounded like one of their regular trips, and Jaskier was looking forward to a little change in scenery. They’d been hobbling along the same sort of villages for too long now, and he’d been starting to grow bored. There was only so many times he could sing the same songs for the same tired people. The only upside to their restricted travel had been the increased time he’d gotten to spend with Geralt, which had been both incredibly awkward and tense, but in a _sort of good way_ …

Imagine his confusion when Geralt had practically _forbidden_ him to come with him, and had even gone so far as preparing accommodations for him in his absence. (“I’ll be back in a month.”) he’d informed him, sternly. (“Stay here and stay out of trouble.”)

Like Jaskier was _a child._ Needless to say, he’d been both offended and outraged!

They’d argued, loudly and unpleasantly, until Jaskier had been kicked from his room at the inn, and Geralt had had no choice but to allow him to accompany him, on the condition that the bard _did not enter that particular town._

As if _that_ would happen. If Geralt wanted him to stay away from this village, it meant something interesting was bound to happen. Jaskier wasn’t about to miss the chance to alleviate his own boredom. And he wasn’t lying about the coin he’d be paid for performing…

_“Jaskier-“_

A whine starts at the back of his throat, but Jaskier cuts it off hastily, not wanting to show the alpha any form of deference. Still, he can’t stop himself from answering, ~~his~~ the alpha’s displeasure rolling off of him in thick, oppressive waves. “Of course I’ve bloody been here!” He says, his voice still a little unsteady despite his best efforts. “Quite a few times, actually. Before I even met you.”

Geralt inhales and exhales deeply through his nostrils, his hand tightening over Roach’s lead-rope. “ _You. Are. Aware,”_ he manages to get out, from clenched teeth. “The laws this town has, about omegas-“

Jaskier lets out a startled laugh, feeling a sudden sense of relief. “Oh, is that all? Geralt, I was never foolish enough to go into any oppressive towns without concealing my scent with suppressant. You know, the same scent-suppressant you destroyed in one of your fits of temper, which I haven’t had the chance to replenish yet, since you won’t let me near a witch-“

“You don’t need suppressant. Not with me to scent you. And it wasn’t ‘ _a fit of temper’_.”

“Then what would you call it? A tantrum? If my memory serves me correctly, you crushed the bottle with your bare hands because you got grumpy that I didn’t smell like you when I used it-“

“It isn’t natural, and Roach didn’t like it. It unnerved her when you didn’t have a scent.”

Jaskier gave a disbelieving laugh. “Geralt, are you seriously using your horse as _your scapegoat?”_

“You won’t be safe in this town without a mating mark.” Geralt avoids the topic entirely, getting to the point of their conversation without any detours, in that taciturn manner of his. No unneeded chattering. “I’ve seen a lot of laws and customs change over the years, but this town still treats unmated omegas like unclaimed property. You’ll be in a gilded cage before the night ends.”

_Paranoid, why am I not surprised? I suppose it comes with the whole persecuted witcher thing…_ “I’ve never seen an omega in chains at this town, Geralt. I think you’re exaggerating a teensy bit-“

“ _You’re_ naïve. How can someone who spends so much time travelling be so naïve?” It isn’t really a question for Jaskier to answer, and yet-

“You’re mistaking naivety with pragmatism, Geralt.”

“Pragmatism? You spend all day writing your flowery songs, and reciting poetry, you don’t know the _first thing_ about being pragmatic. If I believed in miracles, I’d say it was _a fucking miracle_ that you’re still alive right now.”

“You’re implying that I’m reckless, despite evidence to the contrary. I’m not the man who will run headfirst into a fire because of _ideals._ If anything, I have more self-preservation than you.”

“I have accelerated healing, and years of experience dealing with danger and conflict. What do _you_ have?”

Well, Jaskier had to inwardly admit, Geralt _did_ have him there. Certainly, he was experienced in travel, and had the sense to know when to withdraw from danger (that was especially required, what with his status as an omega and all) but other than that, his fighting experience was minimal, and he had little to no skills to defend himself, aside from a swift kick to the balls and a sprint away, but-

“You’re staying here.” Geralt doesn’t give him the time to muster up a suitable argument. He doesn’t have the patience.

“By myself? What if some big bad alpha comes to _defile_ _my omegan virtue_?”

“Roach will be with you.” Geralt doesn’t acknowledge Jaskier’s biting sarcasm. “If something happens, you can ride her to safety. I’ll know how to find you. You smell…particularly potent today.”

“Well e _xcuse me_ if I haven’t had the chance to bathe in a few days. You hardly smell like a bouquet of flowers yourself.” Just another reason to enter the town. The money he’d earn from performing would be enough to afford an inn room with a tub for a bath. Usually he’d blush at the thought of Geralt being able to track his scent (a privilege only afforded to pack-mates) but today he’s too frustrated to fawn over the proof of their bond.

“Hm.”

“How will I compose a song of your heroics, if you won’t let me accompany you?” Jaskier can sense he’s fighting a losing battle on this front.

_This_ front. If Geralt didn’t want his company, then so be it. That didn’t mean he’d deprive the townsfolk of his beautiful singing voice, and himself of a colossal payday, by languishing away in the woods.

No, he’d go himself. Geralt would likely be furious, but once he saw how _perfectly well and intact_ Jaskier was, he’d be too embarrassed by his overprotectiveness to scold him. They could even share a meal, maybe cuddle together in a real bed, instead of the hard ground…

Well, Geralt would never call it _cuddling,_ even under torture, but there was no other way to describe the way the alpha clung to him at night, crushing Jaskier to his chest. Jaskier quite enjoyed it though, being the sort of affectionate omega who thrived under such attention, not that he’d admit it.

Geralt levels him an uncaring look, tucking his swords away, and shrugging into his hooded coat. He obviously wants to stay nondescript, although Jaskier knows he’ll have a hard time passing through such a wealthy and aristocratic town without attracting attention. It might have been easier, to have a bard with him to assuage any negative attention. It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier went into a town strumming his lute, singing at the top of his lungs to ease a hostile atmosphere.

He could be helpful. He wasn’t some useless omega that sat around with his thumbs up his ass, waiting for his _master_ to throw him a bone.

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” Geralt extends the olive branch gruffly, as he ties Roach to a nearby tree. He doesn’t think she’d abandon Jaskier, but it was best to be cautious. She may have been loyal, but she wasn’t immune to being spooked like all other animals. “Some soaps, if you want to wash at a river tomorrow.”

A freezing cold river, and a squashed treat. He wasn’t a dog, and he wouldn’t be so easily bribed. Still, Geralt will be suspicious if he kicks up a fuss, so he angles his head away resolutely, putting on an air of an angrily dejected omega. Embarrassingly, it isn’t that hard. The pout is natural.

Geralt could attempt to comfort him, but he doesn’t. “Hmm.” He grunts, and then he’s striding away, disappearing through the trees. Jaskier watches, tracks his movement. They’d wandered far off the path, a habit of Geralt and a result of his paranoia. It would be easier for Jaskier to find his way if he followed Geralt’s treks. The man navigated the forest with the ease of one of its creatures, and Jaskier knew he could save time if he followed his route.

Only-

Jaskier cuts his eyes across to Roach, who is staring right back, with eerily intelligent eyes. He almost jumps, but reassures himself that it’s just a _horse,_ she can’t know what he’s up to…

No, not just a horse. _Geralt’s_ horse, and faithful companion. Before he came along, the only conversation partner Geralt had was Roach, and he was immeasurably fond of her.

He couldn’t just leave her tied up alone in the woods. If a predator came along, she’d be unable to flee, and if Geralt didn’t kill him for inadvertently causing the demise of his equine best friend, the guilt would. However, if he released her, she would definitely try to follow him. She didn’t obey Jaskier, like she did her master, and she had an irksome habit of trotting along behind him, nuzzling the hair on the back of his neck, when she was loose. Geralt found it amusing, Jaskier found it intolerable. (“She’s mothering you.”) Geralt had commented once, when he was in a more chatty mood. His good-spirits were likely due to the sight of Jaskier trying to outrun his horse, and tripping over his own feet, more than once. (“Isn’t it charming?”)

The word ‘charming’ was far from Jaskier’s mind as he glared at the spirited horse, who was tossing her mane haughtily, as if to say, ‘release me already, dim-witted human’. He _swore_ Roach knew what he was planning...

And she’d likely arrived at the conclusion long before Jaskier, who sighed, realising he had only one option. If he wanted to arrive in town safely, without a horse clopping along behind him and attracting unwanted attention, he’d have to ride her. _Without_ Geralt’s permission.

For a moment, Jaskier reconsiders. Certainly, he’s ridden Roach _before._ Geralt has become far more willing to share the saddle the longer they have known one another, and his new accommodating nature means Jaskier usually has no need for his own horse, but-

Seldom alone. The pair take turns walking whenever Roach becomes fatigued, although the majority of the time, Jaskier prefers the solid sensation of the earth beneath his feet, unlike the rocky terrain that comes with horse riding. Although he won’t deny, how nice it feels, Geralt’s chest at his back, leaning back and enjoying his warmth…

To digress, this would be the first time Jaskier has ridden Roach without Geralt present. He’s not even sure if the horse will behave for him, she might buck him off entirely…

He supposes that he’s grateful, that Geralt hadn’t removed her saddle or halter. For how much the horse seems to like him now, she still refuses to have anyone other than Geralt handle her.

“Hello, beautiful girl,” Jaskier coos, as he stands. He strips off the nesting-coat Geralt had gifted him, replacing it with something more colourful, and eye-catching. He’ll need attention, if he wants to make a good profit in this town. He may appear shabby in comparison to the wealthy townspeople, but at least he won’t be overlooked. “Would you like to take a trip with your favourite very best _second_ human friend in the whole wide world?” Jaskier slung his lute case over his shoulder, turning back to the unimpressed horse. “This little quest of ours might entail _apples.“_

Roach whinnied at the ‘A’ word, recognising the name of one of her favourite treats, and Jaskier smiled victoriously.

_What has my life become, bartering for freedom with a horse?_

Confident in the horse’s servitude, Jaskier untied her from the tree, and swung up onto the saddle. He’s a little unsteady, and clutches at the horn for a moment, feet slipping clumsily in the stirrups. He’s suddenly questioning whether this is such a good idea. Geralt may have been overprotective, but Jaskier _had_ to acknowledge that his concerns came from a logical place…

_Bollocks. I’ll be sharing drinks with the locals by midnight, purse full of coin. Geralt will hear rumour of my magical singing voice, and find me. He’ll be so grateful for a bath and proper bed, he won’t be angry at all. And Roach can have a whole barrel of apples at the inn’s stables…_

Yes. Jaskier could envision the evening _perfectly._

_Geralt will be so impressed with how I’ve handled myself. I can’t hunt, or fight, but I can earn more coin in a night than he can a month if I perform before the right people. He’ll be happy, **I’m sure.**_

****

* * *

One of the most satisfying sounds in the world to Jaskier (asides from Geralt’s rumbling when Jaskier has pleased him, or when the man huffs out a disgruntled laugh every now and again) is the sound his lute makes when he plays it exceptionally. Fingers fluid over the strings, without a single lapse, matching the tune expertly with his voice, a perfect crescendo.

Second to this is perhaps the rapturous applause and praise he is always thrilled to receive, followed by, of course, the merry sound of coins clinking together in his purse once he finishes a particularly impressive number.

Jaskier is hearing that particular sound now, tucked underneath the arm of a busty beta woman, who titters and strokes his hair as he finally enjoys a lapse in his performance. “Oh, you should stay here as our official bard!” She says, to the agreement of the crowd surrounding them. They’d gravitated towards Jaskier, charmed by his charisma, if not much else. He didn’t paint a particularly impressive sight, clothing wrinkled and hair barely tamed, but once he’d started to sing, and crack a few jokes, they were eating out of the palm of his hand. This stuffy lot, with their excessive wealth and worker exploitation, they were practically _starved_ for entertainment, and there was only so much melodic harps and operas could do to alleviate boredom.

It didn’t matter right now that Jaskier’s social standing was beneath them, or that his etiquette was lacking. It was of no concern to them that he’d ridden in on a horse that clearly wasn’t his, or that he gorged himself like a savage on all of the _hors au devours_ provided. They didn’t even bat an eyelid when he forewent social graces, encouraging rowdiness and merriment, opposed to the haughty dignity they were used to.

_If Geralt could see how cheerful this lot are now, I bet his opinion of humanity would brighten. Gilded cage my perfectly shaped **arse.**_

Jaskier supposed he should be grateful for Geralt’s unwillingness to stop at inns too frequently. He’s been marinating in a mixture of sweat and mud over the last week or so, and his omegan smell is buried underneath, even Geralt’s powerful scent overpowered by grime.

He hadn’t even _needed_ any scent-suppressant. Still, whilst he’s here, and without Geralt lingering around _waiting_ for him to act out of turn, Jaskier may as well seize the opportunity. “Does a witch serve your town?” He asks, happily holding out his glass to be replenished with wine. The servant looks a little resentful, likely due to Jaskier inserting himself so effortlessly into such frivolity. He means for her to answer, but the beta woman does instead.

“Our mayor has his own private witch,” she whispers this, cautious of being overheard. “It is _quite_ the scandal. Although if rumour is to be believed, she isn’t a very talented witch. She can barely cast the most simple of spells! Well, at least that’s what a _very_ reputable source has told me.“

Gossip. Jaskier isn’t surprised. Townsfolk with too much time on their hands tend to gossip like a pack of fishmongers. If their lives are so dull and tedious that they resort to such nonsense, he believes they’d better be serving it doing a bit of work, instead of lazing around.

“Why the interest, dear bard? Do you need to poison someone? Perhaps the man who’s horse you rode in on…”

Jaskier has no intention of speaking of Geralt. Not outside of his songs. His life with the man is…private to him, and he doesn’t appreciate scrutiny, even if he invites it with his inability to blend in. “What a nefarious mind you have, Madam.”

“Don’t tease me! _Everyone_ knows that Geralt of Rivia rides on a chestnut horse, accompanied by a singing bard. That _has_ to be you,” The woman’s arm tightens around his neck, and Jaskier grimaces. It would be easy to escape her grasp, but jerking away would only cause a scene, and the others in their little circle have already started to peer at him quizzically. “Come now, Jaskier, no need to be shy. Divulge all of the dirty details!”

_Figures that the people who act so virtuous and uptight are the ones most foul and deprived behind closed doors. This woman would spit at a whore on the street, but she’d probably fuck one of her stable-hands when her husband is away._

“But Geralt of Rivia is an _alpha_.” A nobleman, clothed in the finest of silks, speaks up, bemusedly. “Do you really believe such a primitive savage would settle for anything less than a virgin omega? He’s a beast, after all.”

“Only an inhuman beast can do what he does.” Another speaks up, a little unsteady on his feet. His face is flushed an unattractive red, which Jaskier likens to an overripe tomato fit to burst.

Contrary to popular belief (GERALT) Jaskier _does_ have some self-preservation. If he hadn’t developed a strategy to keep himself safe on his travels, he would have been forcibly bonded _years_ ago. He knows when to keep quiet, when to make a subtle escape. He knows what warning signs to look out for, and can see them glaring at him now clear as day, as bright as Geralt’s pale skin when he strips-

The atmosphere of the room has changed. Alcohol is a fickle thing, either highlighting the best of emotions, or amplifying the worst. This is the time to make a tactful getaway, perhaps excuse himself to take a piss and then run for it. If he’s lucky, he’ll get back to the woods before Geralt returns. He has a real chance, what with Roach…

“If you’ll excuse me, my lovely madam, nature is calling me-“

“He’s a disgrace.”

But.

_But._

Perhaps his own response is fuelled by the wine in his belly, perhaps it’s completely genuine. Either way, Jaskier is both offended and enraged on the behalf of his ~~alpha~~ friend, who has travelled all this way to _help._ Even if he’s met with scorn and derision, Geralt _helps._ “If it weren’t for this ‘beast’ you are so callously referring to, the people of this town would continue to be massacred with no end in sight. You’d do well to remember that it’s because of _The Witcher_ that you are safe to get thoroughly sloshed, whilst ruminating in your smug, self-congratulatory-“

As if burnt, the beta woman releases Jaskier and skitters back a few steps. It’s a little melodramatic, in Jaskier’s opinion, but when he looks away from her, in the direction she is sending her apprehensive gaze, he realises…

_Oh fuck._

The two men who had insulted Geralt (and who Jaskier had pointed out the hypocrisy of their behaviour) are scowling at him heavily, shoulders squared, heads tilted up. It’s clumsy alpha posturing, and hardly compares to Geralt’s intimidation factor **.** Jaskier wouldn’t be a seasoned traveller if he was _scared._

He’s a man who has fled many a window after a passionate tryst, the scent suppressant in full-work. He’s been chased from inns on the occasions where his singing hasn’t been _strictly welcome,_ expelled from towns for travelling with a witcher, and, subsequentially, nearly devoured, maimed, and/or decapitated by the creatures Geralt hunts.

These aristocratic alphas, with their ridiculously ornate outfits, these _closet perverts,_ do not scare him. They do not make adrenaline spike in his veins, or his heartbeat thud rapidly in his chest. He’s dealt with worse, and he will continue to do so.

He just needs to depart quickly to avoid inflaming the situation further.

“You _are_ the bard who follows along behind that bastard like a bitch in heat,” The first one sneers. “I suppose it makes sense, all unmated omegas are whores, parting their legs for any alpha, no matter how _lowly_ they are.”

“I see my reputation precedes me.” Concealing yourself entirely as an omega required a lot of effort. The sort of effort that required constant access to a trustworthy witch, and a collection of fragile potion bottles that were hardly suitable for rough travel.

One for scent suppressant. Another to stifle a heat. Plant matter you chewed to help prevent ‘omegan behaviour’, which Jaskier was pretty sure only made you giddy and immune to fear. Then there was the ointments you could slather on, and the powder you could inhale…

Jaskier was no expert, but he was fairly certain that some of the products that these witches sold weren’t exactly what you’d find in a well-respecting apothecary. In fact, he had an inkling that some of them didn’t even really _work._

And he may have been able to maintain a constantly evasive lifestyle if he was cooped up in a tower somewhere, with an infinite amount of coin to sate his paranoia, but Jaskier _didn’t._ His livelihood depended on his travel, and what kind of life was that, anyway? Jaskier may have been an omega, but he’d never let the metaphorical chains of his secondary sex become _figurative_ ones.

If a life of total secrecy meant hiding away from the world, then Jaskier didn’t want it. He’d deal with the repercussions of his status, no matter how ugly.

And, Jaskier was beginning to realise, _it could get ugly._

“We should give you a taste of a _real_ alpha,” he goes on, much to the amusement of his intoxicated companion, who guffaws stupidly in agreement. _“All man_ , not a hint of monster. You’d be _begging_ for more. I might even be inclined to offer it, if you satisfied me enough. There’s something so _mesmerising_ about a defiant omega.”

“You’d be treated to the sight more often if you didn’t beat them down every chance you got, just to make yourself feel _superior,_ you knot-head.”

Deep, cavernous hole, meet shovel.

But Jaskier keeps digging, because although he’s heard all of this and more about omegas before, Geralt is his ~~alpha~~ friend, and he won’t listen idly to such slander! “Geralt of Rivia is more of a man then you’ll ever be, twice over! In all the ways that _truly matter_ , as an alpha.” Jaskier looks pointedly at the nobleman’s crotch, here, and is left smirking when he crosses his legs self-consciously.

_Alphas, always needing to have the bigger cock. They could wage war over it. I bet they have, in the past._

Jaskier could attest, un-biased, that Geralt was _indeed_ well-endowed down below. He’d seen him naked on countless occasions, and the man had never shied from his gaze before, completely indifferent in regards to nudity. He had no need to be ashamed, being the very definition of masculine power and beauty…

~~And his cock would be something to worship, not that Jaskier thought about that thing very often, if at all.~~

“Alright, my little songbird,” The nobleman hasn’t quite recovered from Jaskier making obscene implications about his manhood, and it’s the beta woman who speaks, finally inserting herself back into the conversation. “I think that’s enough from you. You best return the coin we have bestowed upon you, and leave.”

“ _Bestowed upon me_? Of all the entitled, blithering things to say!” The audacity this woman has, trying to swindle him of his earnings! “I worked hard all afternoon and into the evening, entertaining you spoiled lot, and the coin I have received is payment for my services.” Wary of his coin purse being unceremoniously snatched, he tucks it further into his pocket. Audiences can be fickle, but Jaskier had stopped performing some time ago, and they’d been clapping happily when they’d tossed their coins. There was no reason for him to feel remotely guilty about keeping what he’d earned.

An ugly expression crosses the woman’s face, and she steps back, and turns away. She directs a parting remark over her shoulder, clearly washing her hands of the situation. “Keep him, or dispose of him. Don’t let the witcher know he was here.”

_That sounded ominous._

“Your whole bloody town saw me,” Jaskier pointed out. “They _heard_ me singing. They’ll be humming my tunes incessantly. Geralt will know I’m here.” _Then there’s the whole ‘stealing his beloved horse’ thing. If I’m not dead by daybreak, Geralt will make sure I don’t reach the next sunset._

“You sweet little thing,” her voice is patronising. “You think you’re the _first_ omega to disappear in this town. Most of the omegas in this very room have been in a very similar situation to you, minus the witcher and obnoxious voice.”

_This is sinister._ Jaskier glances around, sees the dejected faces of omegas on their alphas arms, how the light has left their eyes. They’re captives, and there’s no escape, not if they’ve been bonded. They’ll be stuck with their mate until they die. Or, alternatively, their mate dies. Whichever comes first. Jaskier would wager there’s been a lot of mysterious deaths in this town…

Jaskier wishes he could save the other omegas. He wishes there was some magical power he could invoke, but only witches can sever bonds. And even then, it isn’t entirely safe. The consequences can be severe, and deaths are common. 

He has an unpleasant epiphany, and grimaces.

_Geralt was **right.** I shouldn’t have come here. If one of these alphas **bites** me-_

Jaskier tries not to panic, even as his stomach sinks, and he starts to perspire, a sweet-smelling sweat dripping down his forehead. It’s pathetic, an omegan reaction to a threat-

“I _knew_ there was a meek little omega under all of that false bravado. That fear scent… _delicious.”_

A shiver ran down Jaskier’s back, and his eyes frantically sought an exit. Why were all of the doors closed? Since when were there so many leering alphas in the room?

That gilded cage Geralt had mentioned? Jaskier could feel it closing in.

* * *

It doesn’t surprise Geralt that Jaskier has disobeyed him.

Is he disappointed that the bard hasn’t trusted him? Yes. Is he absolutely furious that said bard had stolen his horse? Yes. Was he going to hold it against him and leave him to his own devices in such a grotesque town? No.

No matter how angry Jaskier made him, no matter how _frustrated_ he made him, no matter how overly chatty and cheerful and _witty_ he was, no matter how he made Geralt _feel-_

He didn’t do omegas.

He _didn’t_ do omegas.

And yet he’d ended up with one. _The worst omega imaginable_ , even. He couldn’t fall in love with a nice, meek little omega, who tended to the campfire and massaged his shoulders when he got stressed. Oh no, he went for the flirtatious one with a big mouth and an even bigger attitude.

Wait…he’d _fallen in love?_ Gods, he was fucked. He’d been adamant about keeping his distance from Jaskier, but the man’s unfair capability to endear himself to others had been Geralt’s undoing. That, and his pretty face and intoxicating scent. His sweet personality couldn’t be overlooked, either, although he wasn’t a saccharine sweet so much as a sarcastic, want-to-rip-your-hair-out-because-he’s-so-infuriating kind of hybrid.

To summarise, Geralt may have been reluctant to admit it, even in the solitude of his own brain, but Jaskier was pack. He was _his_ omega. He trusted his instincts, even if it meant acknowledging that his life no longer revolved solely around hunting monsters and collecting coin.

He had no choice but to finally take the plunge, to claim Jaskier as his own. If not to sate his own possessive nature as his alpha, then to keep him safe. Nobody would _dare_ raise a hand to him if he bore Geralt’s mark. It would be like declaring war on the witcher himself. And if Jaskier was killed…

Alphas were known to go on rampages when their mates were murdered, and Geralt had a feeling he’d be no exception. Only an exceedingly imbecilic human would run the risk of being pulverised by a mourning witcher…

“I hope the apples were worth it.” Geralt tells Roach, who is straining at the end of the post she’s been tied to. She ducks her head into the water trough, and he sighs. “I suppose there was no stopping him, was there?” Roach snorted, and Geralt took that as his cue to start searching for the troublesome bard.

He’d had a gut feeling that Jaskier would sneak off, although he hadn’t expected him to make it this far. The forest they’d been in had been dense, easy to get lost in. He’d resigned himself to an evening of scouring them, looking for a filthy bard who’d been wandering in circles for a couple of hours.

_Crafty little shit. I can’t believe he had the nerve to ride Roach in here. He has no sense of self-preservation. I’ve **killed** people for less._

Geralt strides away from his horse, down the main road of the prosperous town. There’s more than one inn here, a few pubs and kitchens. There aren’t so many houses as there are manors set further up in hilly terrain, but it seems a lot of the locals gravitate into the town during the evenings.

Each establishment Geralt walks by, he takes a moment to peer inside, inhaling deeply through his nose. He hadn’t been exaggerating earlier when he said Jaskier smelt potent. What the omega didn’t realise, was that under all of the sweat and dirt, Geralt could still detect his own signature scent, fresh like clean water, _distinct._ Perfect.

Unlike alphas, who let off a sour scent when afraid, an omega’s scent gland produced a sweet, sugary smell when they were in danger, a last ditch effort by the body to be spared pain or harm, especially by an alphas hand. Geralt himself can identify it easily, what with his very existence inciting fear in most men and women.

It does take him a moment though, to realise that underneath the offensively syrupy smell he has just scented, passing by the door of a closed inn, is _Jaskier._ He has a discerning nose, and he’d sniffed out the bard on more than one occasion.

_It was only a matter of time until this happened. **Fucking bard**. I should get him a leash. _

Without an ounce of hesitation, Geralt pushes at the closed doors. He is both unsurprised, and a little unnerved, to find they have been locked shut from the inside. Seeing this solid obstacle between him and his clearly distressed mate makes him feel frantic, and perhaps a little more impulsive than usual. He usually tries to avoid flashy shows of strength in towns and villages, to keep a low profile…

That wasn’t happening tonight. And whoever had frightened Jaskier to this point, Geralt wasn’t going to hold back. Jaskier had seen no end of horrifying beasts, and he’d never released such a strong fear scent before. The implications were worrying, and Geralt doesn’t waste any more time, taking five big strides backward, before barging at the door and slamming into it with all of his strength. Alas, the door is far from the flimsy sort in the poorer towns, and although it buckles, it does not break.

Geralt’s shoulder smarts from his efforts, but he rams it again, and again, until it finally comes loose on its hinges, and he can force himself inside. The noise of his forced entrance should have caused a commotion, and he curses when he realises the inn’s patrons are all cowering in puddles of fine silk and extravagant dresses, Jaskier nowhere to be seen.

He takes another deep breath, well aware of how foolish he looks ~~sniffing like a dog~~ , and turns his amber eyes on a curvaceous woman near the bar, who’s the exact sort of conventionally pretty Jaskier has gone for in the past. There’s something vicious in her, though, Geralt can sense it, even underneath her fear. “You,” he addressed, sharply. “Where’s the bard?”

“I haven’t the foggiest-“

He lets out a growl that has most of the room cowering, the woman included. “ _Do not lie to me_. His smell is all over you.” But not _in_ her, which Geralt is savagely grateful for. “And that’s his purse!” He realises, a moment later. Jaskier’s coin purse is sat open on the bar, the coins pooling out. There’s far more than Geralt last recalled (the bard’s funds tended to deplete quickly on the road, he had little sense when it came to preserving money), which meant Jaskier had put on a good show before being kidnapped. “Tell me where he is, _now.”_

This human is greedy, covetous, and vain. Three traits Geralt despises. He can tell by the way her eyes dart to the coin, by the fine jewellery strung around her neck, and in the way she pauses, when she catches sight of her reflection in a golden goblet, unable to look away. A beta obsessed with status, not uncommon. Geralt has seen many betas who try to overcompensate for their mild scent and general ordinariness, not that he understands why they feel inadequate. Being a beta was a far better option than being ruled by biological urges, like alphas and omegas were.

This woman was the sort to flock to someone who shone so brightly, someone like Jaskier, only to grow bored and stab him in the back when he proved too difficult.

_Just the type of bedfellow he always chooses. Jaskier has a horrible taste in men and women._

This beta is petty and obsessed with social-standing, but she isn’t suicidal, or stupid. There was no excuse for stupidity, when you grew up in a place with so many resources to become cunning.

She answers immediately, head bowed in submission, adhering to his superior status. “They took him upstairs to one of the rooms.” She _quivers_ when he growls again. “It’s the room on the very end, the one with the largest bed! They wanted room to accommodate all three of them. _Please_ don’t hurt me, alpha…”

Geralt has never liked others prostrating themselves before him, even when in the throes of rage. “Hmm.” He grunts instead of verbally replying, striding past her. He doesn’t have any time to waste, and she doesn’t deserve anymore of his attention. Opportunistic snakes like her were some of the worst types of humans alive…

And in Geralt’s experience, their greed tended to be their own undoing. It was almost like self-sabotage. He didn’t believe in fate, but the corrupt human soul was something he had witnessed firsthand for as long as he could remember, and he knew she would ultimately be her own worst enemy. No need for him to interfere.

As he stalks out of the dining area and around the corner, he can hear a barmaid shrieking about everybody leaving, about a murderous witcher on a rampage, and his foot is on the final step of the staircase when footsteps begin to clamber after him, a frantic male voice urging him to not damage the property. The innkeeper, clearly.

Geralt ignores it all with ease, accustomed to the hysteria that comes with his violence. His strides are large and thundering as he continues down the hallway, not attempting to mask his footsteps. He can move through a forest without disrupting a single leaf, and sneak up on even the most cautious enemy, but Geralt doesn’t need the element of surprise to deal with a bunch of pampered brats who have _stolen_ from him. He _hopes_ they hear him, and that they are trying to leap from the window by the time he opens the door-

Geralt doesn’t end up opening the door. The fear-scent grows thicker the closer he grows to Jaskier, and he’s too worried about the bard to bother with the doorknob. He merely shoulders through, wood splintering into his hair, entering a scene that makes his vision go red.

Jaskier has been pinned to the bed, hands lashed to the sturdy headboard, immobile and panting frantically. One of the alphas has his head buried in his neck, breathing in the heady fear scent, a prominent bulge in his trousers, and the other is blearily spectating, rubbing himself lazily.

It takes a mere moment for Geralt to spur into action, seizing the drunken alpha and tossing him outside the room. The second alpha seems more alert, and pauses, poised, mouth open above Jaskier’s scent gland. There’s a smirk there, which Geralt yearns to wipe off.

It’s a threat. He doesn’t need to speak, for Geralt to know he’s threatening to bond Jaskier. He likely imagines himself as quite clever, outwitting the mighty witcher.

Only Jaskier’s false bravado, which had diminished the moment he’d been overpowered and dragged (literally) upstairs, returns in full-force with the appearance of ~~his alpha~~ Geralt, and although his hands are bound, he still has full movement of his legs, one of which he brings up to knee the alpha in his crotch, resulting in a high-pitched yowl that would have made him laugh under normal circumstances.

It’s enough of a lapse for Geralt to strike him in the temple, hard enough to knock him out. He slumps down onto Jaskier, and Geralt throws him so hard across the room that there’s an audible _crack,_ some of his bones doubtlessly broken. It’s a mercy, really, because Geralt feels a second short of killing the man, unconscious or not.

But then he sees Jaskier, eyes wide and vulnerable, wrists bleeding from where’s tied up, and his alpha side _frets._ He rushes to his side, cutting the rope from his wrists with a quick slash of his dagger, and feels at them gently, checking for breaks or fractures. A whine from Jaskier is proof that the left one is sprained, and Geralt knows he’ll have to bind it, which Jaskier will _hate,_ because it means he won’t be able to play the lute until the swelling goes down.

Geralt gives the rest of Jaskier a thorough assessment. Poking and prodding as gentle as he can manage, turning his head from side to side (he is immensely relieved to see no marks, although the rapidly drying spit is enough to turn his stomach) and it’s when he reaches for the laces of Jaskier’s trousers (thankfully left untouched) when the omega finally snaps out of his shock, slapping Geralt’s hand away. “Use your _eyes,_ Witcher. If they’d fucked me they’d hardly have had the courtesy to put my pants on again.”

“I know you’re intact,” Geralt replied, grabbing the strings again. When Jaskier reached to stop him, he grabbed his injured wrist, pressing just hard enough for him to gasp. “But I need to check the rest of your body for injuries.”

“But-“

“You’re in shock, Jaskier.”

“I am _not-_ “

“You’re shaking.” Indeed, Jaskier’s frame was trembling, adrenaline still flooding his body. “Now stop protesting and keep still.” When Jaskier only batted at him, rather ineffectively, with his other hand, Geralt snapped. **_“Keep still.”_**

It’s a command, plain and simple. Jaskier obeys, instantly, even as he frowns.

Geralt would usually feel bad about commanding him, but now he only sighs in satisfaction, shucking down his trousers and looking over his hips and legs, even removing his shoes to check his ankles and the soles of his feet. He knows he’s being excessive, and that this could be done later, but-

It takes a while to realise, but he’s been shaking a bit as well. He’d thought it was solely from rage, but…

He’d been scared. _Scared._

Scared to lose his omega. His mate.

“How long are you going to stare at my legs? Granted, I know my thighs are lovely, if a little pale-“

Even though Jaskier reeks of another man, and Geralt is well aware that they aren’t entirely alone, he’s hopeless to prevent himself from leaning down and kissing the bard, pushing on Jaskier’s chest to keep him firmly planted on the pillow. His lips are soft and pliant, unmoving in shock, and Geralt doesn’t give him a chance to reciprocate, moving down to the scent gland on his neck, kissing it firmly before rubbing his cheek there, erasing the smell of the other men. It’s clumsy, but it will have to do for now, until Geralt can fully scent him again. He’ll need a bath as well…

He doubts Jaskier will appreciate a freezing dip in the river, but Geralt can’t tolerate the idea of him smelling like another alpha until they reach another town. It’s maddening. Besides, it might teach him a lesson about-

Geralt quashes that thought before it can progress any further. As furious as he is with Jaskier, the bard hadn’t deserved to be tied down and molested by two strangers. He won’t waggle his finger at him, and remonstrate him like he’s a child, tell him _‘I told you so’_ even though he was tempted.

Because right now, his omega didn’t need to be berated. He needed protection. Comfort. Reassurance. None of those things were Geralt’s forte, but he’d be damned if he’d be the type of alpha who ignored their omega’s distress, like the moaning and knocked out bastards on the floor.

_There’s a lesson to be learned here, and after Jaskier’s close call, I’m sure he’s learned it. He doesn’t need me scolding him._

But Geralt is gruff, and unused to comforting others, so although he intends to say something calming to sooth his omega, what comes out is- “I have half a mind to turn you over my knee, but you’ve been punished enough. Get up, we need to leave before any soldiers arrive to intercept us.” Geralt rises, and wordlessly extends a hand.

Jaskier takes it, thankfully without comment, and allows himself to be hefted upwards, naturally gravitating to Geralt’s side, and tucking himself there. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly, but he isn’t hyperventilating anymore. He’s even recovered his spirits enough to kick the drunken alpha in the gut, causing him to groan and hunch in on himself. “Let that be a lesson to you!” He huffed, as if he’d defeated the man himself, and not sat helplessly whilst Geralt came to the rescue. _Again._ “The White Wolf is a defender of innocents, a friend to omegas everywhere!”

Geralt has tolerated all of Jaskier’s songs, and poetry, but _this_ isn’t a false-truth he wants spreading. The last thing he wants is omegas commissioning him for help with their… _omegan issues._ “Hmm.” He grunts, and Jaskier seems to understand, as he always does.

“But not just a friend of omegas, mind you! He’s a friend of humanity!” Jaskier goes on, even as Geralt steers him from the room.

The innkeeper is assessing the damage of his broken door, an aggrieved expression on his face. “This isn’t the sort of flimsy establishment you can use for your brawls, Witcher,” he says, although his eyes are averted from the alpha. “My décor is both tasteful and expensive. I deal with only the finest of traders and merchants, and their products don’t come cheap. I expect compensation for the damages-“

“There’s a coin purse downstairs with a beta woman. Help yourself.” Despite the patrons his inn attracted, the man was innocent in the whole affair, although certainly complicit. But really, what could a man of his stature do, when compared with the power of his customers? “Next time be careful not to allow rapists sanctuary here, and you may save yourself some trouble.”

“Oh, thank you, Witcher!” The man shouts after them, as Geralt urges a fuming Jaskier down the stairs. “Your generosity will not be forgotten!”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said. “That isn’t per chance, _my_ coin purse, is it?”

“Is it the one brimming with silver coins?”

“Yes!”

“Then yeah, it is.” Downstairs is empty, the other customers having tactfully evacuated. The coin purse remains though, the beta woman clearly having a sense of self-preservation. “I think it will be enough to compensate the innkeeper for his troubles.”

“But I _worked hard_ for that.” Jaskier hasn’t stopped shaking yet, and his heart still feels like it’s trying to escape from his chest, but he knows a monetary loss when he sees one. One of his main motives for going into the town in the first place (asides from spiting Geralt) was to make some money, and to lose it now, would mean…

An exercise in futility. It had all been for nothing.

“Geralt,” he tries one more time, attempting to disentangle from the man and reach for his purse. “I know you’re cross with me, but be reasonable-“

Geralt comes to such a sudden stop, that Jaskier has to grasp at his arm to stop from toppling over. “Reasonable.” He repeated.

“Yes, reasonable! I will fairly reimburse the old fellow, but the rest is rightfully mine.”

“Hmm.”

“Think of the good it will do on the road!”

Silence, but not the contemplative kind.

“Geralt- _HEY!”_ Jaskier yelped as the man unceremoniously tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, pressing him down with one strong hand to keep him still. “I _will_ bite you,” Jaskier threatened, blowing a strand of hair away from his face. His view of the floor changes as Geralt resumes his walking, and he tries (and fails) to buck upwards. “I mean it! I will!”

“Won’t feel it through the leather.” Geralt said, unconcerned.

“You can’t carry me around like this! It’s demeaning! Release me now, or I’ll, I’ll-“

“I can’t leave you on your own without you making stupid decisions, Jaskier. If keeping you out of trouble means carrying you around like a child, then _fine._ If you were _wearing your **fucking** nesting coat, _this wouldn’t be a problem.”

Jaskier huffs in disbelief. “Is that anyway to treat your _mate_ , you _inconsiderate bastard_? I am _defiled,_ and I am _traumatised,_ and I deserve to be _soothed,_ and _cuddled,_ and told everything will be right in the world, even if it _won’t,_ because my alpha is an arsehole who is opposed to bathing and socialisation, and who treats me poorly and won’t let me write songs about his glorious body-“

Geralt purposefully treads over a rough piece of road, jolting Jaskier uncomfortably into a buckle on his shoulder. He ignores the stares of the locals spectating, confident that a stoning won’t be coming his way. Not after the mayor’s declaration that he won’t be harmed whilst he's here. “I **_am_** your alpha,” he said. “And I’ll coddle you all you want when we get safely away from this wretched place. Until then, _keep your fucking mouth shut.”_

Jaskier goes silent for a moment, miffed, yet mollified. Although Geralt frequently referred to him as an omega, the man had never truly acknowledged their connection before. He’d never called _himself_ Jaskier’s alpha, even though he’d been acting as such for some time. It was enough to make his heart swell, full with warmth and satisfaction. It nearly made all of the trauma from the evening worth it.

Nearly. Geralt was going to _pay_ for making him leave behind his coin purse. He didn’t know how, or when, but he _would_ have his revenge.

“Coddle me all you want, eh?” Jaskier says, instead of letting his intentions be made clear. Considering how well Geralt has come to predict him, he’ll probably be on the lookout for any retaliation regardless. “Does that mean you’ll oil me up and give me a massage? My back is _awfully stiff_ after riding Roach all of the way here…” Jaskier’s mind wanders, to all of the wonderful ways Geralt can dote on him for the rest of the evening. Muses on how amazing it feels already, to know the man has finally verbally admitted that they are connected. An alpha-omega pair. Even in his wildest dreams, Jaskier had never imagined his unrequited fascination would be returned. And here he was, swung over the shoulder of a very possessive alpha who had staunchly defended his honour. It was all very…romantic.

_Perfect_ for a new song! Jaskier could already imagine the melody, floating through his head, the lyrical composition…

_Geralt of Rivia, the chivalrous defender of omegas._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt: Jaskier has been through enough. I won't scold him.
> 
> Also Geralt: *mentions spanking him, and gives away all of his coin*
> 
> ...at least he plans on snuggling with him later? :D
> 
> Sorry for the abrupt ending! They seem to be becoming a running theme. One of these days I'll write something well-rounded.
> 
> I already have a handful of ideas for continuations, but if I take a little while to post, or to reply to a comment, it's not because I've forgotten or I'm being rude. My country is literally on fire right now, so I'm a little preoccupied with those pesky real life things :)
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who has left Kudos or comments. Without your encouragement I wouldn't feel so confident in continuing! Have a good day/night wherever you are <3
> 
> (Title taken from the song Naive by The Kooks)


End file.
